Mindless Distractions
by Phanatic01
Summary: Christine struggles to understand the workings of her husband's mind. One-shot.


**A/N: A** **fter being inspired by a few pieces recently posted on here, I decide to try to write something of this nature for a change. So, after some encouragement from my friend and beta, AliceHeart247, here's my first attempt at it! I hope you enjoy.**

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These days, her husband's attentions could stray as quickly as the changing of wind.

It did not take Christine long to notice this, nor did it take much longer for her irritation to grow. She loved Erik dearly, that much was evident in her every gesture—a fact she strove to prove to him daily—and although she had learned a great deal of patience in handling his moods, his unpredictability sometimes still managed to baffle her. When his focus would be drawn from the book he was reading to his pianoforte or his violin or whatever instrument he chose to bestow his gifts upon that night, Christine was left to ponder the workings of his mind. Her confusion would strengthen when he would eventually leave the instrument behind in his wake, unfinished melodies hovering in the air around them like the broken lamentations of lost souls. She wondered if they haunted him as much as they haunted her.

She loathed to see her husband in such a restless state, but despite her valiant efforts, she had been unable to successfully hold his attention on a single task. Not even her singing was able to provide him with the ease of comfort lately, and her heart would twist at the sight of his frown as he listened to her vacantly.

She only wished to tame the relentless tempest of his mind, if only for a little while, but she did not know how. And, more often than not, he would not even allow her the chance to find out.

On this particular night, Erik was once again seated at his pianoforte, the phrases he produced erratic to say the least. Christine leant against the curve of the instrument's body, a placid smile on her face as she watched him play. At times, she desperately wanted to possess his ability to command the keys the way he did, and had even sought him out to teach her. He had complied, of course, and was patient in his mentoring, but no matter how hard she practiced, the notes would not obey her as willingly as they did her husband. She envied him that. Yet, what was utterly bewildering to her was how his entire being could turn cold in the face of such spellbinding music. He was capable of producing the most magnificent melodies she had ever heard, but he would so often walk away from them that she could not help but think that he was squandering his gift.

What was it that irrevocably pulled his mind one way and then the other?

When his playing began to slow, Christine closed her eyes, hoping that this hesitance was merely a transition of sorts between pieces. But it was not to be. When she next looked at him, she found his hands still against the keys and his gaze to be directed at his lap.

"Why do you smile, wife?" he asked so innocently that, despite her mourning the loss of his compositions, it only made her smile widen.

"Why have you stopped playing, husband?" she retorted somewhat playfully, yet in the back of her mind there lay a lingering worry. She adored the time he would lavish upon her, playing for her amusement and his enjoyment, but his serenading tonight had lasted all too briefly, and she had hoped to coax him into continuing. "You know how I love to hear you play."

"You have not answered the question, Christine," he mused, sliding his hands across the piano before they dropped to his knees. When he found her eyes, however, the smile in question had faded and he felt a pang of guilt at the loss of such a beautiful sight.

As she remained silent, a frown began to form on her face. She had begun to fear that a change in his focus was now imminent and that she would be powerless to stop it. Not wanting to lose his company so soon, she did not think twice before languidly raising an arm towards him. Erik blinked at the invitation and as he did nothing for several moments, Christine worried that their time together that night was at an end. But her arm did not falter in its reaching and soon he was rising to his feet, slowly, but surely, then making his way around the bench, approaching her with a sense of bubbling curiosity.

Her hand wrapped around his own as she guided him to stand close to her, their feet almost touching. If she could not persuade him to keep playing with words, then perhaps his presence beside her would prove to be just as satisfactory. Sighing, she stroked the backs of his fingers with her thumb and watched as he did nothing but stare at their joined hands.

His face was bare, and she preferred it that way. Even now, she shivered to remember how carelessly they had both acted that fateful evening beneath the Opéra. How they had wept, how she had covered her eyes in fear, how he had clawed her fingernails across his skin, showing her that his face was real and not just another mask. Her fingers had drawn his blood. Those fingers he was now so tentatively stroking in return.

"I love you," she whispered, leaning into him as his head came to rest in the crook of her neck. "I love you, I love you."

Christine could feel his body tense as she spoke, and the pressure on her fingers increased slightly before he relaxed into her. Many months had passed since she had summoned the courage to confess her love for him, but occasionally he would react to her endearments as though it were still the first time she had said them. She loved him all the more for that, even as her soul yearned to dispel any anxieties his mind may have been harbouring.

A quiet moment washed over them and Christine closed her eyes again, savouring every aspect of it, lest it disappear from her grasp. She committed to heart the ticklish feeling of his sparse hair against her jaw and the scent that always clung to his clothing—it was _his_ scent, unique and indescribable in every way, and yet so familiar to her now that it had become one of her favourite smells. But that was her secret to keep.

She wondered about her own scent and if he was able to detect the subtle hints of oils and fragrance that still lay upon her skin after her bath that morning.

Quite suddenly, she felt him shift. Opening her eyes, she saw that he had stretched his free arm out across the piano lid to the side of them, his palm flat out against the cool surface.

"Will you not play, Erik?" she attempted one last time, and at the shake of his head immediately dashing her hopes, she regretted ever opening her mouth. With another sigh, she cast aside all thoughts of him returning to the keys and was about to lift her head when he began to nuzzle gently at her neck.

The heady rhythm of his warm breath on her skin was all that she heard for many moments, until, "I love you." Her own breath caught in her chest as she felt the unmistakable brush of lips on her throat as he formed the words again and again.

Shyness overcame her, her teeth biting down on her lip as she wondered whether he could feel how heavily her pulse was now throbbing. It was ringing in her ears. If he was unaware of it, she would have thought him a fool or perhaps even deaf, but he did not comment on it and for that, she was grateful.

Candlelight blazed around them like garish beacons in a labyrinth. He would not be so bold as to kiss her when so much of their forms were no longer draped in darkness, she thought. But how she longed for him to act upon those impulses, as any other man would, and to embrace her heartily in the light! But alas, her husband was not like other men, and he would seldom show any intimate displays of affection before the moon had risen.

But to both her surprise and coy delight, she would soon discover that tonight was different.

His lips remained upon her skin. Maintaining a timid pace, as though he dreaded the moment she would push him away, his mouth traced the contours of her throat, never kissing, but also never retreating from the expanse of skin before it. It was when his lips trailed an inquisitive path around to the back of her neck, however, that she very nearly forgot how to breathe.

His head tilted so that he could press a single kiss to the top of her spine and she shuddered violently, her body arching brazenly towards him. But there was little time for Christine to register any embarrassment in her reaction, for Erik's hand had untangled itself from hers and was gliding steadily up her clothed arm.

When she had reached for him mere minutes before, she had never imagined that this would be the outcome. Her heart pounded against its ribbed prison every time he would gain the confidence to touch her in this way, and she cherished these moments, as well as his bountiful trust in her. Although her mind was still encased in girlish bashfulness, she could never deny how much she craved his touch. But at that moment, she found herself frozen to the spot, taken aback over his boldness in the light. If he had found the confidence to act not just under cover of darkness, then she would not scorn him for it. But it did leave her with an itching interest to learn his next move.

His fingers soon rounded on her neck, tracing her collar bones and the skin veiling her voice, before he pressed closer to her, claiming her lips. He swallowed her gasp as he carefully held her face in place, his touch against her jaw as distracting as it was wonderful.

"How I love you," he cried ardently, kissing her senselessly as he bravely slid his hand around her body to toy with the bindings of her dress.

Startled, she broke away to find a fiery darkness lurking in his yellow eyes. It was dangerous, overwhelming… but so devastatingly entrancing that she secretly longed for his gaze to burn right through her, to consume her whole.

How bold they _both_ were in the candlelight, she mused.

As he stared at her, she seemed to understand that he was seeking permission to continue, and though she was far beyond wanting him to stop, she could not bring herself to speak. Her mouth moved, forming words of acquiescence upon them, but when no sound came out, she feared that her husband would interpret her demure silence for refusal. She leant forward slowly, her body trembling with desire as she timidly touched her lips to his once and nodded her consent. At this, he released a short groan and allowed his fingers to fumble awkwardly behind her back, pulling mercilessly at the material until he had all but yanked her bodice down to her waist. The cool air bit at her skin a second before his teeth did the same and she did not know which sensation had managed to provoke her shuddering gasp more.

Her arms were trapped in her own sleeves, now pinned between their heated bodies, but she did not care one whit, not when he was attacking her neck with such delicious precision and the fingers against her shoulders felt so heavenly.

At the sudden scraping of clothing, she glanced down to see Erik fighting to free her from her clothed bonds. Once the material had been pushed over her wrists, she did not quite know what to do with her hands. Her awkwardness returned to her as she fluttered her fingers in the air, indecisively. Should she embrace him, thread her fidgeting fingers through his hair, grab at his lapels or—a sharp cry left her mouth. He had pulled down her chemise, as much as her corset would allow, and his mouth had descended upon her chest, applying wet and frantic kisses to her bare breast.

Never had he sought her out in this way, never had he been so brazen before, and it terrified her as much as it utterly thrilled her.

He moaned into her, the hum of satisfaction feeling both wicked and delightful against her hardened nipple, and soon she was aching for him to transfer his touch to the other. He did not disappoint. As he kissed and sucked, his fingers ran up her chest to knot themselves in her hair. With eyes closed, he tried to free her curls, his fingers blindly groping for the pins he could not find. Growing frustrated, he lowered his hands away from her and stepped back.

Softly panting and clutching at the piano for support, Christine felt his dark gaze penetrate her and a burning heat spread across her cheeks. How she must have looked! Bared at the chest, lips red and swollen, her skin branded with his kiss, and her hair, tussled and loose, only just managing to hold its shape. And yet she did not move to cover herself, even as the candlelight shone over her figure. What pained her, however, was the sudden frown on her husband's face and the glassy haze in his stare. And just a moment later, he had turned his head away.

Fighting the urge to weep, Christine lowered her head. She had never felt more desirable in the short entirety of their marriage than she did at that moment and she was anguished to think that his mind had once again drifted to something else. Was she to be so easily disregarded, just as his music was?

Foregoing her dignity, she looked to him with beseeching eyes. "Please," she murmured, and it was all she could say. "Please, Erik..."

Before the shame could devour his wife, Erik's gaze returned to her, his brow more furrowed now as he began to walk forward. Each step that he took was agony for Christine, but when at last he reached her side again, she welcomed him with a small kiss to his forehead.

His touch, if possible, became more fervent than before and Christine found herself swept up in his ardour. He kissed her lips as his hands travelled downwards, skimming her breasts and over her many layers, until they reached her legs. Straining to keep his mouth locked with hers, he grabbed fistfuls of her hem and pulled it up.

Her knees knocked together at the same time he pressed his body to her, the angle of his hips causing a sharp pulsation of pleasure deep inside. Her long moan was a lustful prelude and Erik watched her intently as she tilted her head back, allowing his gentle rocking to drive her slowly towards that tantalising brink.

But it was not enough.

Astonishing even herself, Christine lolled her head forward and, with eyes as dark as her husband's, reached for his trousers. Her fingers shook as she sought the ties that barred them both from bliss, her breath hitching as she neared her goal. It caused her much confusion, then, to have her hands quickly pried away from his body.

"Is any-anything the matter?" she asked hoarsely, to which he shook his head.

Not satisfied with his silence, she opened her mouth to ask him again, but all that escaped into the thick air was a slow whimper. Erik had slipped a hand underneath the folds of clothing held up between them and was stroking the only patch of skin on her leg that was not covered. The further mewls that she emitted were all the encouragement he needed for his mouth to return to her breast.

As she shut her eyes, Christine could not decide what felt more intoxicating—the building pressure of his lips on her nipple or the gentle exploration of his fingers as they finally edged beneath her drawers.

" _Oh_!" she gasped as he quickly found her aching centre, shamefully bucking into his hand when his touch remained timid. His mouth at her breast slowed to a tormenting tease then, his fingers at her heated core matching its pace and care and driving her mad all the while.

The rhythmic rubbing only increased when he twisted his hand slightly, softly grinding her sensitive nerves with his palm while a long finger slid along her folds and entered her fully.

Her hands weakly grabbed at his shoulders, her body writhing deftly in his arms, like the placid rocking of a boat upon water.

Her chest heaved at the sensations he was causing, and she craned her head forward, seeking his mouth, his face, any part of him that she could otherwise touch as his finger continued to slip in and out of her. Understanding her want, Erik removed his mouth from her breast to tease her own, never quite giving in and closing the distance between them. When a second finger entered her and its pace began to quicken, he found her eyes, her brilliantly alluring eyes, and held her gaze for as long as she could stand it.

He amazed her, his intense stare, his focus, his concentration all locked on her, and she dared not look away from him as he continued to rub and tease and torture her, for fear of losing him.

"Why do you smile, wife?" he asked again, his voice a deep rumble on her cheek, and, with a blush, she realised that her mouth had spread into what could only have been called a salacious grin.

" _You_ ," she rasped, jutting out her hips to meet each thrust of his fingers. " _You_ , _my husband_."

And suddenly the ground had fallen out from beneath her feet.

Her mind took but a second to register that Erik had removed his hands from her once again and had lifted her onto the piano lid. Momentarily stunned, Christine yearned for the power to know his thoughts, to know what he was thinking, what he was planning...

As the seconds flew by, she attempted to regain control over her breathing, but that was proving nearly impossible now that Erik had reached for her again. His renewed touch was strange, feather-like and provocative upon her thighs, and then slowly, oh-so slowly, his fingers were pulling down her drawers, the material shifting down her skin until they reached her knees. A little manoeuvring on her part saw them then tumble effortlessly to the ground.

Expecting him to finally free himself and relieve them both of this agonising tension inside of her, she frowned when she saw his gaze fixed upon the dark curls between her legs, only partially obscured now by the hem of her dress. She felt his trembling fingers on the curve of her knees, his hot breath on her quivering thighs and then—

" _My God_ … _O-Oh_!"

His lips had never touched her _there_ before, and neither had his tongue, but, oh, how wantonly she urged him to continue now. Her body fell back against the lid, her chest arching, her legs squirming as he kissed and licked and lapped at her wetness. Biting her lip, she fought the desire to beg him to continue, but again no words came forth, not even when the sound of his ministrations made both her heart and core throb harder.

" _Erik_ ," she groaned as he pressed his face to her, his hands gripping her hips after she raised her legs to allow him better access. Her body was writhing and twisting across the piano and his tongue was diving into her with so little restraint that she could not help the hysterical whimpers that left her lips.

Grabbing a firmer hold of her hips, he surged forward, lifting her lower half off the lid and, with a final gasp, pushed her over that divine edge, her delirious cries filling the air as he slowly eased her down from the heavens.

Still breathing heavily, he carefully pulled her into his arms, her legs anchoring themselves around him as she cradled his head to her chest. "My little love," he murmured, wrapping his arms about her waist and rocking them both soothingly.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered into his ear, bracing herself to at long last tell him her worries. "I have such fear that your mind will take you from me. I… I do not know what to do, or even what you want me to do."

He breathed deeply, inhaling her scent as his fingers crept up to toy with her unkempt hair. "Forgive me, Christine. Forgive me. You cannot enjoy living with me, it is such a burden—"

"You are not a burden," she insisted, raising his chin so that she could look into his eyes. "You are my husband and I love you. I only wish to help you when you appear so restless."

His gaze softened, and he leaned up to claim her lips before mumbling in a low droll, "You have helped me tonight."

Closing her eyes at his words, she held him tightly, her lips finding his once more. "I am glad of it," she told him sadly, "but what of the next time? How am I to know what to do?"

Erik searched her pleading eyes for several painful moments, wondering if, or _how_ , he should reply. In the end, he simply pulled away from her slowly, maintaining their gaze as he sat himself down on the bench and began to play.

Helplessly, Christine laid back against the lid, lacking the energy to push her skirts down or to cover her chest, even as she now felt a terrible chill creeping over her. Her body lay as limp as a corpse as she simply listened to her husband's evasive playing.

She continued to listen when his composition transformed into a sonata.

She continued to listen when her heart wept at the thought of still not being able to break through to him.

She continued to listen as a tear slipped down her cheek.

Yes, her husband's attentions could easily stray these days, but she vowed to do all that was within her power to bring him a little peace... If only for a little while.


End file.
